


I Fell for You Like a Child

by Maple_Fay



Series: Tumblr reposts [2]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: AU, F/M, Fireman AU - Freeform, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:46:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4022131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/pseuds/Maple_Fay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there's a fireman, a science-nerd, a hummus fight, and a guest appearance from a girl named Jadzia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lodessa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lodessa/gifts).



> Yet another story I was requested to write by the lovely Lodessa. I am seemingly incapable of saying 'no' to her.
> 
> The prompt I used for this one was as follows: ”i’m a firefighter and you started a fire in your kitchen but you’re still flirting with me even though you’re not wearing pants and im carrying you down a ladder as you compliment me on my muscles”. The title, rather predictably, comes from Johnny Cash’s "Ring of Fire". Enjoy!

**_I fell for you like a child_ **

Despite belonging to what could be called the ‘ruling class’ of the local FD, Chakotay is the first to admit that cutting its budget by close to thirty percent was the worst possible idea.

Now, instead of the usual twelve-hour shifts, his men are expected to run sixteen-hour ones—plus, his handpicked team of fearless, adventurous people (dubbed ‘the Maquis’ by the not  _quite_ so fearless snobs down at HQ) has been disbanded, its members pushed to various precincts across the municipal district. It’s a shitty arrangement, and he hates having to push his people to the very limits of their strength, covering a large portion of the city with considerably less resources and close to no backup.

Plus, the Fate clearly has it in for them, sending the strangest possible calls their way—and just before shift’s end, too.

Today, it seems, is no different. After a strong start—industrial warehouse fire, some chemicals involved—just after 9 PM, the shift goes on without much incident, lulling everyone into a false state of peace. Then, just after 8:30 AM, when all Chakotay can think about is heading back home and falling into his bed like the dead weight he is, the emergency lights come on, the clacksons howling almost as loud as his long-suffering men groan.

“Duty calls, lads,” he tells them, trying (and probably failing) to sound appropriately enthusiastic. “No time like the present.”

“I’d happily exchange it for thirty minutes from now, thanks,” he hears someone grumble under his breath, but wisely chooses to let it slide. Regardless of their collective state of mind, seconds later they’re neatly piled up in the car, with Tom at the wheel, and listening to Neelix, their jovial resident from Finland, tell one of his adventurous stories. Personally, Chakotay doesn’t believe anything that comes out of the man’s mouth—he thinks most of it is aimed at Tuvok, the bomb disposal guy, whom Neelix has been unsuccessfully trying to aggravate ever since he started his rotation. They bicker good-naturedly as the engine wheezes past office buildings and into the suburbs. Their destination turns out to be a sturdy brick house, the kind that’d gone out of fashion over thirty years before, only to become wildly popular in the last six months or so—very retro, they say, but what Chakotay sees is a deathtrap, with doors that tend to jam and windows not big enough to provide sufficient ventilation.

As they pull up on the lawn, he observes the smoke rising from one of the fourth floor windows, and sighs inwardly. How big a chance that they’d have to use to ladder? He wouldn’t place a wager against it, in any case.

A frail-looking elderly man in well-washed overalls is standing in the middle of the lawn, looking up at the smoke with a sour expression. “What’s she gone and done now, that strange girl?” he asks rhetorically, shaking his head in disapproval. “Always up to something, that one. Out and about at all hours. Bringing strange things home.” He gives Chakotay a long, appraising look, and purses his lips. “You boys better get up there. Her door’s jammed stiff.”

…which is actually everything Chakotay needed to know. The ladder it is. Damn.

He volunteers to go in and look for the ‘girl’—he’s been told that he’s good with young people, especially women (the shrink that gave him the evaluation followed it by a strange look and an invitation to dinner, which he smoothly avoided), and he doesn’t want any of his overworked men to snap at whoever it is that inspired the old man’s distaste. He’s their commanding officer: he should be the one to suffer. Oh, the joys of power!

Once he climbs up to the window, he finds himself in a cramped kitchenette filled with thick, black smoke. What used to be a fancy electric cooker is now a piece of black, bent metal; everything else, including a top-quality coffee maker, is in no better shape. Quite a fancy place for a young woman to be living in, he muses, and ventures on—down the short passage and into the room that’s not exactly a bedroom, a working place or a lounge, but something in between. An open door leads into what he believes to be the bathroom: he follows a string of imaginative curse words echoing from within.

“Miss, we’ve got to—“ he begins to speak, and pauses rapidly as he takes in the woman inside.

She’s not a girl at all.

Late thirties—maybe two, three years younger than himself. Hair chopped neatly off at jaw level, the color indistinguishable under soot and grime. Tiny, compact frame, and long,  _long_  legs—perfectly visible due to the fact that all she’s wearing is a dirty T-shirt and a pair of cotton panties. She’s arranging small plastic containers in the sink, seemingly unaware of the chaos around her.

Strange indeed.

“Ma’am,” he amends his opening phrase, “we’ve got to go. If we don’t extinguish the fire, it’ll—“

“One more minute,” she dismisses him, elbow deep in her work. “Just—let me—“

Another cloud of smoke flows into the tiny room, and Chakotay decides to forego any further pleasantries. Wrapping an arm securely around the woman’s waist, he picks her up—she’s small enough for him to throw her over his shoulder, the old fashioned way—and walks out of the tiny bathroom, stopping only to open the window in the bedroom-slash-lounge, creating an outlet for the smoke. His ‘companion’ wriggles against him and grumbles all along the way, her speech slurred from smoke inhalation, small hands beating hopelessly at his back. As he heaves them out of the window and onto the ladder, she finally sags against him, huffing in displeasure.

He’s almost halfway down the steps when she speaks again, a little drowsily, “At least they sent me a hunk. Your muscles are  _fantastic_.”

Chakotay almost loses his footing, when she follows the bold statement with an even bolder gesture of pinching his right buttock through his uniform. How long has she  _been_  in there? Giddy like a teenager, half-dressed and mule-stubborn… he has to agree with the old man’s statement—this is one strange girl, indeed.

Once they’re safely on the ground, he carries her over to Harry the paramedic and his oxygen-and-blankets station, and walks back towards the building to oversee the extinguishing action. When he comes back, the unfortunate fire victim looks much more composed, wrapped in a grey flannel and conversing easily with young Harry, a bottle of water in hand. “Hello again,” she says and gives him a smile bright enough to clear any leftover smoke from the entire block. “Sorry if I said anything… embarrassing, back there. Wasn’t feeling quite like myself.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he waves a hand at her, trying not to look too closely at the fingers that’d squeezed his flesh minutes before. “What happened, exactly?” It’s a follow-up question he’s required to ask for the purpose of his incident report, but he can’t deny wanting to hear her speak again: maybe it’s the smoke, but her voice has an amazing, husky overtone, like an alto saxophone. Surprisingly, she blushes and bites her lip, crunching her nose in embarrassment.

“I pulled an all-nighter at the lab, and decided to treat myself to a nice breakfast as a reward. Didn’t go  _exactly_  as planned.”

“The lab?” he asks, too curious about her for his own good. “What is it that you do, Mrs.…?”

“Janeway,” she answers with a small smile, “Kathryn. And it’s ‘Ms.’, actually. I work in a nuclear biology research facility.”

“I see,” he nods, even more in awe of this small, resolute woman. “What do nuclear biologists have for breakfast, then?”

She blushes, an honest-to-God redness dominating her soot covered cheeks. “…French toast.”

Chakotay blinks, gaping rather inelegantly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Harry step away from them and cover his mouth with one gloved hand, desperately trying to hide a smile. He doesn’t blame him. This whole situation is absolutely surreal. “So… you do  _nuclear_  biology, but still manage to set your apartment on fire by making  _French toast_?”

“Hey,” Kathryn Janeway protest defensively, “I can’t be a genius in every aspect of my life, now can I?”

“Somehow, I think you could be if you tried,” he quips, kicking himself mentally all the while. He should  _not_  be adding to the ‘sexy fireman’ image by flirting with her.

Especially since the next words out of her mouth are, “I really should have taken Mark up on his offer of breakfast. Damn.” She looks up at the soggy bricks around what used to be her kitchen window. “And I’ve just bought a brand new coffee machine.”

“Maybe you should call him now,” he offers in what he hopes is a helpful manner, and whisks his phone out of the uniform’s inner pocket, offering it to her. “Your boyfriend, right? He should pick you up, get you somewhere safe and warm.”

She frowns at him in confusion. “Who, Mark? Oh… oh, no, you misunderstood—he’s not my boyfriend. Once upon a time, yes—but that was  _ages_  ago. I got a grant for doing some research in Australia a few years’ back, and we couldn’t handle the distance thing. We still work together, but he’s happily married now. I’m his son’s godmother, if you could believe such a thing.” Still, she takes the phone, surprisingly cool fingers brushing his. “I’ll call my sister, though. And Mr. Boothby: elderly fellow, have you seen him? He fixes my door sometimes, maybe he’d help…”

“I’ll go and look for him,” Chakotay offers and steps hastily away, his head spinning a little. Perhaps he’d involuntarily inhaled some smoke—or perhaps it’s the whirlwind of emotions he experiences while interacting with one Kathryn Janeway that seems to leave him quite dazed of confused.

He gravitates back to her almost twenty minutes later, when the guys are all but ready to leave. She’s still sitting in the back of Harry’s rig, listening to the guy’s endless chatter—probably something about his medical college courses he’s so proud to be taking. She smiles as Chakotay comes into view, and hands him back his phone. “Thank you,” she says simply and hops off the seat to stand barefoot on the grass, squinting up at him in the morning sun. “I don’t even know your name. Should I call you Officer? Or is it ‘Commander’?”

“Chakotay would be perfectly fine,” he says, surprised to find himself returning her easy smile.

“Chakotay,” she repeats, his name soft and flowing on her tongue. “Thanks again. Don’t be a stranger.” She sees someone behind him—probably the aforementioned sister having come to pick her up—and nods, stepping around him to join them. “Oh, and by the way—“ she whispers as she brushes past him, dirty and smelling of smoke and absolutely amazing, “—I meant what I said about your muscles.”

And just like that, she’s gone.

It isn’t until much, much later in the evening that day that he finds her phone number entered into his mobile’s memory.

**/TBC...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

His sister certainly doesn’t waste time, putting the salad down with much more force than necessary and fixing him with a hard, demanding look. “Alright, spill. What’s this I’m hearing from Lover Boy, about you meeting some kind of a super-woman?”

Chakotay throws Tom a glance that clearly conveys his disapproval and asks whether the other man fancies a monthly streak of night shifts. “I wouldn’t say she was a  _super_ -woman, exactly…”

“Come  _on_ ,” Tom whines from across the table, narrowly avoiding dropping a piece of meat from his fork. “She was awesome! Did she, or did she not pinch your ass while hanging off your shoulder head over feet and being carried down a freaking  _ladder_?”

B’Elanna gapes at them both, jaw slack. “We’ve got a live one!” she announces at long last, punching the air. Tom nods enthusiastically.

“Definitely. And about the bloody time, too. Remember the last one—that exchange student Neelix brought along—what was she, Swedish?”

“Danish,” Lanna corrects her boyfriend with a sour grimace. “And about as lively as a pastry.”

“’Emotionally impaired’ is what I’d call her.”

“And what about her  _mother_ , huh? Can you imagine inviting her over for a family dinner? The woman had  _minions_ , honest-to-God minions!”

They go on like this for quite a while, berating Chakotay’s taste in women: and in the light of his recent tryst with Annika Borgsson, he’s not in any position to argue with them. She was pretty enough, blonde and tall and willowy slim: but also very, very young and, frankly speaking—rather boring.

Now, something tells him Kathryn Janeway is anything  _but_  boring.

“Hey, you! I’m talking here!”

He snaps out of his reverie, focusing back on Lanna. “Pardon?”

“I was asking, what are you going to do about her? The woman’s got some spunk alright.” She leans forward, palms flat against the tabletop. “When do I get to meet her?”

“What makes you think I’m going to see her again?”

She gapes at him in utter disbelief. “You didn’t ask for her number?!”

“No.”

Which,  _technically_ , is nothing but the truth.

Lanna deflates slightly, turning to Tom for support. “Well, at least he knows where she lives,” she muses. “And if he’s  _half_  the Torres  _I_  am—he’s going to do something about it.”

–

He leaves B’Elanna flat around midnight, his phone a heavy weight in his pocket. It’s been two weeks since ‘the French toast fire’, and not an hour goes past without him wondering whether he should call, or at the very least text, the long-legged arsonist. His sister and her beau seem to be under an impression that he needs serious encouragement to do so, but they couldn’t have been more wrong if they tried.

He  _wants_  to call. Wants to grasp at the chance to deepen their acquaintance and find out where it leads. Trouble is—he’s not exactly sure whether she’s given him her number for the right reason.

Chakotay has had his fair share of dealing with smart, confident women who expressed an interest in him—remember that shrink from the other day?—simply because they wanted some ‘action’, a way to fulfill a fantasy of a muscular, soot-and-grime covered male stepping into their immaculate parlor and devouring them whole. Despite their initial insistence to get to know him better, in the end it all came down to his profession and the stereotypes associated with it. Once he’d lost the uniform and showered properly—once he let himself be known as an amateur painter, nature lover and e.e. cummings enthusiast: a significant part of his charm seemed to have suddenly been lost somewhere.

He hopes this time would be different. He  _wants_  Kathryn Janeway to look past the  _fire_ man and see him as a  _man_. And yet, he doesn’t call: because what if she wants the cliché instead of the truth? Or, possibly even worse: what if the only reason she flirted with him  _had_  been smoke inhalation after all, and she considers him to be a version of a village idiot? After all, she’s quite high above him in the pecking order of the world.

Speaking of pecking—he’s only just finished dinner (and Lanna is a great cook, whether she’s tackling meat roast, vegetable lasagna or French toast), but his troubled mind in strongly demanding comfort food. Specifically—curried carrots and lemony hummus, carried only by one chain of veggie Delis in town. Fortunately enough, there’s a 24-hour Deli store close by. Newly invigorated, Chakotay pulls up the hood of his FD sweatshirt and makes a sharp right, walking briskly down a dimly lit street and towards a welcoming, greenish neon sign: few more minutes, and he’s going to lie down on his couch with a bowl of hummus and some brown bread, turn on the radio and do his best to stop thinking about whether to make a certain call or not.

The store is almost deserted at this time of the evening; Chakotay wastes no time and heads straight for the fridges, smiling slightly at the sight of a familiar orange box in the distance—until, that is, someone else reaches of it at exactly the same moment he does. Two hands meet on the box, and a husky voice says with mild amusement, “Well, I’ve never seen  _that_  coming.”

He throws his hood back and gapes at the woman holding the other end of the box, her fingers as cool as he remembers them to be. She’s a redhead, it turns out, and he likes that color on her much better than Soot Black. “Ms. Janeway,” he manages to say, earning himself a slight wince and an impressive eye-roll.

“Please—Kathryn. ‘Ms. Janeway’ makes me feel like I’m my own mother.” She glances at the box they’re both holding on to. “Now, let go.”

Her smile is so warm, inviting and  _familiar_  that he throws all caution to the wind and decides to approach her not as a woman he sees for the second time in his life, but rather as a friend. “Why?” he asks with mock defensiveness, trying to contain a smile that’s threatening to spill across his face as an answer to Kathryn’s grin. “Because you’re a woman, and I should let you have the—“ he checks the shelf to be sure, “—last hummus?”

She puts her free hand on her hip and looks up at him with force that makes his knees weaken. “Would you rather arm-wrestle for it?” The idea is so ludicrous he laughs out loud, and gets another stern look. “Why? Don’t think I could take you, hmm?”

There’s a slight, meaningful pause, and suddenly they’re laughing together, wiping merry tears from their eyes and letting go of the hummus box as they struggle for breath. “Okay,” Kathryn breathes at long last, supporting herself with a hand resting on his shoulder. “You’re as great a hummus lover as me. I get that. What shall we do with this predicament?”

And then she picks up the box, and places it carefully in Chakotay’s basket. “Come on,” she says, steering him towards the bakery, “I’ve got an idea.”

–

She drives a car so bruised and battered it’s long lost all characteristics of any particular brand. There’s a letter chain spelling “VOYAGER” hanging from the rear view mirror, a pile of books and notebooks in the backseat and Chakotay’s favorite jazz station playing softly from the speakers. He instantly feels at home, stretching out his legs and listening to the hum of the engine. They don’t speak much on the way, comfortable in each other’s company; he doesn’t recognize the neighborhood Kathryn drives through, away from any of his usual routes—different is better, he thinks.

They end up on a hill south-west from the city: a posh part of it, somewhere as far away from Chakotay’s childhood home as possible within the confines of this community. Kathryn puts a blanket on the hood of the car and they sit side by side, sharing the hummus, two portions of pita bread fresh from the oven and a thermos of chai masala with soy milk (“I’m not a vegan—I just go through phases,” Kathryn’s said).

“So,” his companion says, tearing her pita into small pieces and dipping them in the hummus with gusto, “what brought you to a deli at this time of night?”

“I only just left my sister’s house,” Chakotay explains, leaning back on the windscreen, “and I had a craving. Yourself? Another long night at the lab?”

“Not particularly. I just… don’t sleep that much. What does she do? Your sister, I mean.”

“She teaches martial arts,” Chakotay says proudly. B’Elanna’s school is one of the best in town.

Kathryn throws him a sideways glance and hides a smirk in her cup. “She’s the brave one in the family, I take it?”

“You don’t find  _me_  brave?” he asks, only partially pretending to be wounded by her words.

“Well, you never called me, so…”

Ah, yes. She’s got him there—a proverbial rabbit in the headlights. He looks away from her (lovely as she is to look at even in the dark, wrapped in a thick, rust-colored sweater, hair in disarray and nose more than a little red from the cold) and down to the flickering lights of the city, trying to imagine the tapestry of people’s lives, winding together and coming apart day after day. “I—wasn’t sure whether you meant it or not.”

“So you basically think me to be the kind of girl who gives her number to anyone? Why, thank you,  _Commander_.”

He all but swallows his tongue in haste to explain himself, but Kathryn merely tsks at him, patting his arm reassuringly. (She’s very tactile, always reaching out to touch him, and he loves every bit of it.) “I know what you mean. The savior complex. The fireman fantasy. You weren’t sure whether you could trust me to see past our circumstance—whether I actually saw  _you_ , or simply a random piece of male flesh in a fireman’s suit.” She takes a long sip of her tea and smiles a sad, knowing smile. “Am I close?”

He nods, finding himself more in awe of this woman with every passing minute. “Quite.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have fondled you the way I did,” Kathryn muses, more seriously than her words suggest. “Sexual harassment goes both ways. I forgot, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” She drinks some more of the tea and half-turns to face him more fully, her eyes focused and deep in the darkness. “Point is, I did hope you’d call me.  _You_ , as in the man who understood that he had to stand up to me and pull me away from a fairly pointless task that might have got me killed. And, more importantly, the man who cared enough to do just that.” She offers the last piece of her pita to Chakotay on an open palm, and this time her fingers feel hot when he brushes them—hotter than they could have become from the tea itself.

“Did I blow it, then?” he asks hesitantly, feeling a bit angry at himself for ever doubting her. He may not know her very well, but he should have realized that a woman who let him see her as vulnerable and culinary-impaired while not wearing any pants wouldn’t have simply treated him like a mindless piece of meat, regardless of what she may have done to his ass.

Kathryn puts her chin in one hand, looking out towards the city lights, and touches his arm one more time, before tucking her sweater tighter around herself. “I may be convinced to give you one more chance.” She answers his relieved smile with one of her own, and turns back to watch the city fall asleep. “Chakotay?”

“Yes?”

“I think we should make sure that next time we meet there will be no food involved. Somehow, I feel we may have found our Achilles heel.”

“Would wine be acceptable?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere…”

**TBC…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

“’Work and safety in a fire house’.” Tom looks up from the piece of paper Tuvok’s handed him. “Are you kidding me?”

“It’s a valid point of discussion that would benefit everyone,” the other man says, apparently amazed by the overall lack of enthusiasm.

“On a professional conference, maybe—but not during the annual  _Chidren’s Science Fair_!” Tom springs up from his seat, pacing around the meeting room. “We’re going to suck major balls this year, aren’t we?”

A chorus of nonplussed grunts rises in reply. “Too bad none of us knows any  _real_  scientists, right?” Harry says, and Chakotay thinks—not for the first time in the last few weeks—that he could have chosen a better time to start mouthing off to his CO.

That said, the guys have been more than supportive of his budding relationship with Kathryn. They have patiently withstood the day after the infamous Almost Fight Over Hummus, and never complained when Chakotay stuttered during performing the most basic drills. They left him in peace, allowing him to regain his footing—which he did, in the end, once some parameters have successfully been established.

When he says: ‘parameters’, what he actually means is that they’re mostly playing it by ear, finding the time to see each other whenever they can. Kathryn heads a big project for her team, and thus needs to stay in the lab for fifteen-hour stretches at least twice a week. When she’s finally free to have some personal life, Chakotay’s schedule is most uncooperative—which is why they’re still stuck in the ‘mostly friends, with potential’ zone, circling around each other and touching far more than necessary, trying to make up for real intimacy they both want.

Because, hey—they’ve talked about it, almost straight away, like serious grownups. When Kathryn took him home that first night, she pulled up at the curve by his house, leaned over the console separating their seats and pressed a quick kiss to Chakotay’s cheek, leaving him completely stunned. “I’m not the easiest person to get along with,” she told him without any false coquetry. “My schedule is a deathtrap, I am constantly on edge and I usually take took much on myself. I want you to know this now, so that you may step into this with eyes wide open, should you choose to do so. And for the record: I really, really hope that you do.”

And then, she drove away, taking his peace of mind along.

There’s a promise between them, waiting to be fulfilled. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but it  _is_  going to happen, whatever ‘it’ turns out to be in the end.

Now, Chakotay’s teammates are of the opinion that the sooner ‘it’ happens, the better. Male solidarity notwithstanding, they genuinely like one another, and wish all the best to any man in the group.

Also, the want a chance to tease him mercilessly about the ‘heel boy’ they feel he might become.

Normally, he’d dismiss their proposal of making Kathryn a part of the Science Fair for that very reason—but the sad reality is that yes, they  _are_  hosting the majority of this year’s festivities, and _no_ , they don’t have a clue what to do to save the kids from death by boredom (and Tuvok).

“Alright, already,” he grumbles, making a show of his displeasure, as if having a legitimate excuse to call Kathryn during ‘office hours’ wasn’t exactly what he’s been hoping for. He leaves the guys inside, knowing they’ll immediately let their tongues run wild (a bunch of gossiping wrangles, the lot of them) and goes to a quiet spot behind the station, leaning against the sun-warmed wall and closing his eyes as he waits for the connection.

“Well,  _this_  is a pleasant surprise,” her lovely voice says straight into his ear, making him feel even warmer. “Hello.”

“Hi, you,” he grins like an idiot, sort of glad she can’t see him right now. “Am I disturbing anything?”

“Not at all. You know I very much enjoy being ‘bothered’ by you.” If he ever gets into a position of power, he’s going to register her voice as a controlled substance—he’s already an addict himself—and perhaps some form of an instant kindling, too. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Actually, it’s sort of a business call… are you free on Saturday?” He explains the details of the fair and Kathryn hums, deep in thought—and doing some extremely pleasant things to his equilibrium.

“I may have a few ideas: we did a similar thing over here last year, I could easily modify it for ‘outdoor’ use. When do you want me?”

 _Right now, please and thank you_ , he thinks, but manages to say, “Is nine-thirty too early?”

He can almost hear her smirk at the other end of the line. “Make sure there’s plenty of coffee available, and you’ve got a date.”

–

She walks through the door, with a shoulder bag and an assistant Chakotay’s met once before—tall, dark girl with astonishingly blue eyes and a curious genetic treat that has pushed all her freckles into a neat line around the outline of her face, making her look absolutely stunning: Jadzia, he thinks her name is—and makes all the men fall in love with her within seconds. Tom is almost salivating (Chakotay decides  _not_  to visit Lanna for at least two weeks, in case his one-day-maybe-brother-in-law’s imagination runs a little wild, propelling his tongue on), Harry immediately starts to run around, answering Kathryn’s every beck and call (and shyly flirting with Jadzia: the boy’s got good taste, that much is certain), Neelix brings forward not only the coffee, but a plate of home-baked cookies; even Tuvok decides to sit with them and  _converse_ , instead of reviewing for his lecture. Due to all this, Chakotay doesn’t get to say ‘hello’ properly—and then the children start arriving, filling the whole building with gleeful laughter. He finds himself buried under a pile of preschoolers, asking a million questions a minute about the engine and the job and can they slide down the pole, please?: and temporarily loses sight of Kathryn.

Two and a half hours later, when the last of the kids are hoarded away by long-suffering teachers to have their lunch under the canopies put up in the yard, Chakotay is completely drenched, physically and emotionally—and, as it turns out, it’s only the beginning of his problems.

“Ahh, Captain Torres,” a heavily accented voice purrs by his ear, “so nice to see you again.”

“Still a Commander, Mrs. Borgsson—which you undoubtedly know,” he replies, trying to keep the scowl off his face as he turns to face her: silver-blond hair swept back from sharp-featured face, a scooping neckline of skintight dress showing off too much flesh he’s comfortable with seeing, three uniformed lackeys (so bland they look practically interchangeable) in tow. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

“I am Vice Chairman of the Municipal Board of Education,” she explains rather proudly. “The proper assimilation of valuable information by the children of this town is of great importance to me. Which reminds me: do you really think letting them play with  _liquid nitrogen_  was a good idea?”

He hasn’t seen any of the experiments Kathryn and Jadzia encouraged the children to perform, but from what he’s heard by way of Tom’s enthusiastic reporting, everything was absolutely safe, conducted in a truly professional manner, and  _extremely_  fun. “As long as it’s enjoyable, and makes them want to  _think_  for themselves—I see no harm in it, ma’am.”

She purses her lips, clearly as displeased with his assessment as he is with her presence. “I am very sorry to hear this, Commander. Perhaps next time, you might consider inviting my Annika over. Her vast knowledge and sharp wit would greatly benefit the children.”

 _And yet, you need to advertise her, as if she’s last season’s merchandise sitting on a shelf_ , he thinks, feeling rather sorry for the girl he’s once dated. She deserves someone kind and nurturing—not him, but a good, sensible man nonetheless—and her mother would really do better if she gave the girl a break every once in a while.

Mrs. Borgsson opens her mouth to speak again, but before a single word can come out, Kathryn materializes herself by his side, wrapping an arm around his waist. “There you are, darling,” she sing-songs, standing on tiptoe and brushing her lips fleetingly against his. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Fun fact: this has been their very first kiss.

Chakotay’s brain comes to a screeching halt, and he probably wouldn’t be able to remember his own name should anyone ask him. Fortunately for him, though, Mrs. Borgsson recognizes a woman on a warpath when faced with one, and makes an exit that’s carefully disguised not to appear hasty or forced in any way. Kathryn watches her go, one hand still pressed flat against Chakotay’s back, the other resting comfortably on her hip. Then, she turns back to him, and he’s surprised to see a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

“I hope you didn’t mind that I’ve manhandled you again,” she says, frowning. “I didn’t mean to, but you looked so uncomfortable, and she seemed so  _possessive_ of you it drove me mad, and I wanted to—“

His brain kicks back into gear, and he grabs her—very much like that time when he’d carried her out of her burning apartment—picking her up with ease and pushing her into the metal side of the engine, his lips immediately finding hers.

The soft, needy sound she makes, wrapping her legs around his waist (they fit together wonderfully, just like he hoped they would) goes straight to his head (or perhaps both of his heads, crude as it sounds), and the way she kisses him, as if he’s a mystery she’s desperate to solve, makes his kness weaken. Her hands cradle his face, and his travel the expanse of her back, around her slim hips and up, up, up her torso, just as his lips descend down her neck…

When the alarm blares angrily around them, for a moment he’s hoping beyond hope that it’s his mind cheering at finally knowing how it feels to hold her in his arms: however, the reality doesn’t give a damn about his happiness. He reluctantly releases Kathryn, letting her stand back up on her own two feet, and they both groan in frustration as they come apart. “Hold that thought,” she whispers against his mouth, capturing his bottom lip for one more second—boy, does he  _love_ the things she does with her tongue, “and come by my place tonight, would you?”

“Are you kidding me? You couldn’t have kept me away if you tried,” he declares solemnly and she laughs, stroking his face with gentle fingers,

“It’s a good thing I’m not going to try, then. Be careful out there, alright?”

“Always am, Kathryn.”

“Good,” she nods briskly, stepping away and leaving him utterly bereft without her warmth. “And don’t you forget it.”

–

A bridge is on fire.

A  _bridge_  is on  _fire_.

In the middle of a bloody town.

People are a truly amazing species.

He shakes his head in amazement, and walks over to Ben Sisko, leader of the District 9 squad, happily noticing that he’s not the only one utterly perplexed by all this. “What the hell is going on?”

Ben shrugs, already pulling down his visor. “Some kids made a bonfire. A spark caught on an illegally drawn copper wire, and bam, here we are.”

“Some  _kids_? In the middle of the day?”

“Hey, you’ve got to give them credit where it’s due—they’re all awfully creative.”

“I can see that,” he grumbles, putting on his mask and helmet. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

It all goes perfectly well, an action straight out of the books: heavy machinery cutting off big pieces of metal, sand and foam being sprayed over electrical wiring, his people giving more than their share—the fire is starting to lose the battle, and Chakotay allows himself a small, proud smile under his mask: wait till he tells Kathryn about this one. Tonight, he doesn’t think he’d mind playing up to ‘the fireman fantasy’, were she thus inclined…

Adrenaline and anticipation clouding his senses, he never notices a big chunk of a concrete pylon break away from the construction right above his head.

**TBC…**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

His first thought after waking up is that he might have died and gone to heaven, because he can hear Kathryn’s soft whisper nearby.

His second thought is that he hasn’t, in fact, died, because every bone in his body is screaming in pain.

The thought immediately following that one is that this may well be hell, since it looks like Kathryn is insisting on seeing another man.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she says in an urgent whisper. “I simply want Joe.”

“Come now, Kath—you can’t seriously be thinking that I’m not qualified to do this!”

“I have no doubt in your skill, Julian. I just want to be sure that—“

“I think he’s awake.” Whoever is talking to Kathryn—a British guy, from the sound of it—moves closer to Chakotay. “Sir? Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?”

He tries to do just that, and—after a long, painful moment—manages to look up at the stranger’s concerned face. He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is parchment-dry, and no words come out.

“Don’t try to speak,” Kathryn says, coming up next to the man and taking Chakotay’s hand in hers. She’s still wearing the same clothes she had the last time he saw her, but her face is ashen, her hair in disarray. “You were injured in action. Do you remember anything?”

He tries to collect his thoughts, but the last coherent image in his mind is the conversation he’d had with Ben. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to convey a negative answer—his neck seems to be restrained somehow, impossible to be moved.

“A block of concrete fell on you. Your friend, Mr. Sisko, managed to push you partially out of the way, but you still got hit. You sustained massive injuries—“

“May  _I_  be allowed to inform the patient of his state, or have you recently taken a course in surgery I didn’t know about?”

Kathryn and the man next to her cringe a bit, making way for another doctor: this one a balding, tight-lipped guy wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He flashes a light at Chakotay’s eyes, leafs through his chart and spends a good deal of time checking the dressing covering his torso. “Four ribs broken, five cracked. Left shoulder dislocated. Bruised liver, ruptured spleen. A concussion, naturally. All in all,” he snaps the chart closed, looking at Chakotay down his rather impressive nose, “you were incredibly lucky to get away with just this. Your recovery is going to be long and painful, but you  _will_  eventually regain all your strength. Godspeed.”

The doctor steps away, and Kathryn puts a hand on his arm. “Thank you for looking in on him, Joe.”

“Anything for Ed’s little girl,” he answers, brushing a kiss across her cheekbone. “Don’t get yourself sick worrying, Kathy. He’ll be perfectly alright. Oh, and do give Julian some credit. He’s trying very hard.”

After he leaves, Kathryn and the British guy exchange knowing grins, and come back to Chakotay’s bedside. “Chakotay, meet my dear friend, Julian Bashir—he’ll be your attending physician until you’re well enough to come back home.”

Julian smiles and nods, gently patting Chakotay’s good shoulder. “Everything Doctor Zimmerman said is true. You’ll be spending quite a bit of time contemplating various ceilings, but I don’t expect any permanent damage to any of your systems.”

He manages a small nod of thanks, still unable to speak. Kathryn moistens his lips with an ice cube, the cold a welcome relief. She smiles at the greediness with which he drinks it all up, and gives him some more. “You’ll be out of here in no time,” she promises him softly stroking his forehead with delicate fingers. “And once you do, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

–

Turns out, she wasn’t joking.

Upon being discharged two weeks later, he finds himself in an ambulance on route to Kathryn’s apartment rather than B’Elanna or his own. He tries to protest, but she shuts him up with a quick, hard kiss on the lips. “I’ve been hauling furniture around all weekend,” she announces, “so shut up and get over it.”

When they arrive to the flat, she takes him straight to bed (a notion he wouldn’t be opposed to in any circumstances, although he wishes his injuries were already healed), its sturdy king-size frame dominating the small living space of Kathryn’s apartment. “How are you going to manage?” he inquires, loathe to leave her presence but concerned about her work and responsibilities.

“I had some leave coming up, and decided to cash it all in,” Kathryn says, tucking the sheets around his torso, her fingers all but burning his heated skin. “And if they  _really_  can’t do without me in the lab, B’Elanna has offered to come over and sit with you. As a matter of fact, she and Tom are coming for lunch in an hour or so. Don’t worry,” she adds hastily, pouting at the not-quite-fake expression of horror on his face, “she didn’t let me cook.”

–

He wonders whether he should be surprised, frightened, or elated by the easiness with which they’ve established their daily routine. By the end of the third day of his recuperation, he almost cannot remember what it was like to be without her, to live alone, to not hear her huff impatiently when notes of an experiment she’s reading aren’t making sense, or to smell her body lotion when she reads in bed, holding his hand until he falls asleep, succumbing to drugs and exhaustion. When he wakes up in the morning, Kathryn is already up, sipping on her first cup of coffee and greeting him with a smile and some tea to wash down the painkillers. She helps him with the exercises prescribed by Julian, chastising him gently when his impatience for results gains the upper hand, and fixes him lunch (under his careful supervision, naturally). B’Elanna and Tom drop by for dinner every other day, bringing food and laughter and stories from the fire house. It’s a welcome change in the rhythm of their day, but Chakotay finds that the quiet time after he and Kathryn are left alone is his favorite part of entertaining guests. In the evenings, they talk or read or watch old movies together, Kathryn fitting perfectly under his good arm, and kiss goodnight—sometimes for over an hour.

It’s altogether wonderfully frustrating, and Chakotay cannot  _wait_  for his injuries to heal.

Kathryn’s behavior is both helping his recovery, and working against it. She’s extremely patient with him, which raises his spirits: but she’s  _also_  chosen to wear one of his shirts to bed, which makes her look good enough to eat and frustrates the living daylights out of him. He wants nothing else but to throw caution to the wind and pounce at her—but Julian, who’s been visiting every other day, warns him not to overdo anything, lest it has a counter effect on his recovery.

 _Extremely_  frustrating.

Especially once you take the goodnight kisses into consideration. Chakotay had kissed his fair share of women ever since that memorable April night with he was thirteen and Fran Locksley kissed him on the second floor landing of their building, but Kathryn Janeway is… something else. She touches him with reverence, but without hesitation, and her kisses convey both challenge and submission. She’s warm and sensuous, even at the times when she curses like a sailor, crossing out the day’s worth of work because she’s found one slight mistake in her calculations. When her tongue curls around his and she breathes new energy into him, she feels like the part of him that’s been missing forever.

One night, feeling quite liberated after his customary dose of drugs, he asks her whether she’s ever heard the ancient story of how people came to be—being of two heads and tow hearts, separated in half by a god jealous of the harmony and love they felt within themselves, and destined to search for their missing part in vain.

“But I found you,” he announces happily, his words slurred and slow. Kathryn smiles down at him, resting comfortably against his good shoulder and cradling his head between her arms, fingers gently caressing his brow. She leans down and brushes her nose against his, murmuring something into his ear: the drowsiness overtakes him before he can make out the words, but he dreams of silky skin and bright smiles that night.

Three weeks after he’s been discharged, he’s already walking around without support and regaining some of the muscle tissue he’s lost during bed rest. Kathryn goes out to the store, promising to bring back hummus and wine, and Chakotay spends the time stretching, testing out his muscles. He’s still quite sore, and tires more easily than he’d like, but all in all, things are progressing nicely. He decides to run himself a bath—Kathryn spends so much time in there he figures it must be worth something—to help heal the stiff muscles, and packs up some of his clothes for laundering as he waits for the tub to fill. Once he lowers himself into the warm water, scented with clear sandalwood oil, he all but moans, closing his eyes in pleasure. Oh, he can easily understand why Kathryn likes it so much…

His thoughts drift, untethered from reality, until he hears the floor creak: there’s a loose board just inside the bathroom doorway, which means… “You’re back.”

“I am,” her voice is low and husky, and he can hear the quiet slither of fabric as it slides against her skin, “and I’m enjoying the welcome party  _very_  much.”

Chakotay opens his eyes as the water level rises, and pulls Kathryn into his arms, her skin almost as delicate as the liquid around them, but covering a ripe, strong body—a panther ready to pounce. She kisses him, softly and sweetly, belying the intensity with which her nails scratch down his arms and over his chest, to his stomach, and… Chakotay groans, his own hands exploring tirelessly, learning the landscape of Kathryn’s pleasure: places that make her sigh and others that inspire whole-body shivers; touches that open her up; the smell and taste of her skin where it puckers up and smoothens out. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the fact of the water growing steadily cold is demanding his attention, but his current occupation is much too pleasurable to be put on hold…

“I think we’d better stop,” Kathryn breathes into his ear, ending the last syllable in a moan and biting his earlobe in retaliation, “before things get out of hand…”

“Don’t think I could take you, hmm?” he throws her own line at her, and cups her face in his hands, thumbs brushing against the corners of her smiling lips. “I’m  _fine_ , Kathryn—unless you count an incredibly high level of frustration. Besides… do you  _really_ expect me to believe you’ve abandoned your ‘manhandling’ ways?”

“You know me better than this,” she answers breathlessly, standing up in the tub like Aphrodite emerging from the foamy sea, oily droplets travelling down her body and making Chakotay want to recreate every one of their paths with his tongue. “Come on, then, up with you.”

“ _That_  will not be a problem,” he quips, and looks down his body with a quirked eyebrow. Her smile is practically alive, like a small animal: hungry and excited and very, very chirpy.

He wishes he was well enough to pick her up and carry her to the bed, bridal style rather than the fireman one: alas, here’s to hoping he’ll get to do it one day—and as for now…

–

“ _O-oh!_ ”

He holds her up by the hips, watching in awe as her back arches, her hands scraping for purchase on his oil-sleeked skin. She’s the most beautiful he’s ever seen her, wrapped up in ecstasy, all but glowing in the late afternoon light filling the room. It’s impossible not to get caught up and follow her—so he does, elated by the purr-like sound she makes, dropping forward to rest against his chest.

“You’re on fire,” he speaks into her hair, hands mapping the expanse of her back.

She chuckles and presses a kiss to the skin over his heart. “Boy, I do hope  _not_. Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous,” he nips at her shoulder, tightening his hold of her when she tries to move away, “but it can wait. Stay.”

Kathryn accepts the offer happily, stretching out and resting her chin on his shoulder. “Do you feel sufficiently manhandled and mistreated, Chakotay?”

“Oh, definitely. Although I might require a repeated performance at some point, just to make sure I don’t forget the feeling.”

“That could be arranged,” she smirks, tracing linear patterns across his left temple—it tickles a bit, and Kathryn’s smile deepens as Chakotay scrunches his nose up in a grimace. “I’m glad you’re getting better, though.” She pauses, biting down on her lip. “Does this mean you’ll be wanting to go back to your place soon?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he tells her in all seriousness, because the fact is he’s given this issue much thought, and discussed it with B’Elanna the last time she was here. “I would need to make some special arrangements, but  I do hope to move back, eventually. This place is too small for two people, Kathryn. It’s barely big enough for one, wouldn’t you agree?”

He can see her face fall, and doesn’t have it in him to torment her any further. “I’ve got this spare room I’m currently storing my training gear in: would you mind going over there with me, and seeing if it could be changed into a study?”

She sits up and stares at him incredulously, still as a statue. (He should have a life-size sculpture of her commissioned someday—yet another idea for future reference.) “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

He tries to shrug while lying down, with one shoulder still not completely healed. It doesn’t look too good. “Kathryn, we’ve jumped from being barely more than friends to living together, and you taking care of me in the most selfless manner. What makes you think this wouldn’t work out?”

“I’m not saying that,” she protests, putting both hands on his good shoulder, as if assuring herself that he’s here, in flesh and blood, and meaning every word he says. “I’m just… this has never happened to me, Chakotay.”

“So, it’s a new thing.” He takes her hand and twines their fingers together, raises her palm to his lips and traces the lifeline with the tip of his tongue. “Is it bad?”

“No,” Kathryn relaxes a little under his ministrations, but he can tell she still has her doubts. “You know it isn’t always going to be this way, right? This, here—it’s like a holiday from the real world. We’ve both got responsibilities out there, jobs that demand a lot of us, friends and family that need us… What happens once all that comes back, full force?”

“In my world, that’s an even better reason to stay together: in more ways than one.” He kisses her palm again, turning to his side and pulling her down to lie beside him. “You could keep this apartment, in case you ever get tired of me: but we’d still see each other after a busy day, we’d make sure neither of us dies a terrible, fiery death…” He yelps and glares at her a bit when she pinches his side. “Wouldn’t it be better than trying to balance everything and pretending we’ve got it under control? We’re normal people, Kathryn, not superheroes. And people need—“

“—their other half, to function properly,” she finishes for him, kissing his knuckles. “I know. And I agree.”

“You do?” he asks, grinning like a madman.

She nods, and lets him pull her in for another kiss, one that transforms into something else entirely.

“One condition, though,” she adds as an afterthought many minutes later, her hair fanned out on Chakotay’s hip. “We’re definitely keeping this bed.”

“Done. Can I have a condition of my own, too?”

“What now?”

“No French toast, ever.”

“Not even if  _you_  make it?”

He rolls over, burying his face in her neck as drowsiness begins to descend upon them. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Is it too much, though?”

“Never.” A pause, followed by a loud rumbling of a stomach: his, hers, that much is unclear. “Kathryn?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you actually buy that hummus…?”

**The End**


End file.
